


Split Open

by just_kiss_already



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Slow Burn, Tags updated with each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29199855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_kiss_already/pseuds/just_kiss_already
Summary: Rumor has it Mando is not doing so well. He needs something—someone—to keep him steady.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Fennec Shand, Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 21
Kudos: 267





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Boba only know some Mando’a, primarily parts of armor and curses. His dad never thought it particularly important to teach him.  
> Kute: flightsuit  
> Hut’uune: cowards  
> Bes’marbur: pauldron  
> Buy’ce: helmet  
> Nibral: loser  
> Ad: child

Arkanis is cold, wet, and miserable. Boba and Fennec are in the cockpit of Slave I, staring out at the endless rain while eating freeze-dried rations. They taste so generic that they can only be loosely described in the most basic of terms: “meat” or “starch” or “vegetable, possibly.” It doesn’t help Boba’s mood. They’re tracking one of Jabba’s former lieutenants, an enforcer that’s traveling to various planets; he wants to drum up support to force the New Republic to arrest Boba for the “murder” of Bib Fortuna. Laughable, really. The New Republic is too busy cleaning up imp scum to worry about one criminal killing another. Still, best to crush a bloodflea before it bites. Unfortunately the nibral already fled for another planet. And the karking weather is making Fett’s joints ache.

Despite his dark mood, Fennec sits and eats methodically, ignoring him. Perhaps not ignoring, but simply waiting. There’s a silent build-up of suspense. The third time he glances her way, she casually tells him that she heard from Cara: Mando is sick. In the mind. Boba nods, thinking of the small green child, of a clan of two. Thinks of the tricks your mind plays on you when it’s you against the entire galaxy. Tricks he’s familiar with.

But Fennec isn’t done, she wields her information strategically. This is not idle gossip despite the offhand manner. She doesn’t look up as she fishes the last of her dehydrated meal out and she casually informs him that Karga has been caring for the Mandalorian but is at his wit’s end. Looking for a kind way to send him off.

Nothing shows on Boba’s face. The tightness of the scars has made it so that any subconscious facial tics or cues are mostly eliminated, making an already reserved man even harder to read. Impossible for the untrained. He has a fondness for the young Mandalorian, sees in him the best parts of his father’s heritage, perhaps even sees a echo of Jango in the man’s sense of honor and fierce love for his son. They did not part on the best of terms, unfortunately. Boba has no great love for the Jedi; the thought of Mando’s tiny ad in the hands of a Skywalker still makes his hackles raise. Lips twisting in displeasure—at the situation, at his own past, at his weaknesses—Boba shoves his empty packet in a pocket of his kute and grabs his helmet, slamming it over his head. Fennec buckles up and settles back with her eyes closed, fading into the background. Nothing more needs to be said. She knows she has unerringly hit her target, just as she always does.

The matter dies down for a few days. Fennec abides. Fett broods. The hunt continues.

Unexpectedly, Dune sends word of her impending arrival on Tattooine, necessitating Boba’s return. And ending his hunt. Not a good start. The fact that he has not made up his mind nor sent for her also sets his teeth on edge. 

They arrive at Hutt’s palace—now Boba’s—late in the evening. Fennec assures him that their quarry is as good as dead before she heads out.

Once in his main hall, Boba lounges on the obscenely large throne, enjoying the quiet of the evening as the palace’s perimeter security chirps to inform him Cara is landing the ship she borrowed from Karga. While Jabba loved a rowdy, filthy crowd, the way they all clamored for his attention, Boba much prefers the peace that comes from having properly cowed supplicants all waiting for the right time to beg a favor or strike a deal. He finds much humor in the fact that many seem to be waiting for him to be in a “good” mood, something that is unlikely to happen.

Boba watches from his throne as Cara and Mando descend his stairs, thankful his helmet is on. Let the Marshall make the first move, see how she wants to play this, what her goal might be. Her boots ring heavy, she’s a fine strong woman, and behind her the Mandalorian looks almost like a ghost despite his gleaming armor. Something is definitely off, he recedes into the background even as they move across the center of the room. 

At the base of the throne, Dune looks up and is visibly annoyed at the power imbalance of the position. “I hear you’re short on staff,” Cara announces, her voice just this side of rehearsed. For a second her eyes flicker to Mando with his head down and now Boba understands. How long did the Marshall take to come up with a way to hand him over without insulting his pride.

Well. She’s not wrong. With Fennec out finishing their hunt, there’s not one person in his palace he would trust with even a loth cat much less his own safety and affairs. Truly, even with Shand he keeps one eye open. “Can’t trust the locals, Fett’s people are still around. Hut’uune,” he says, spitting the last word in contempt. From beside Cara, Mando flinches ever so slightly. “Him, I trust. You, I trust.”

Cara sighs as if she’s put out by the entire situation, as if this wasn’t her own silly plan to take Mando’s mind off of his loss. “I’ve got my duties, I won’t be staying. But this one needs work.” She claps Mando’s bes’marbur and nods, sealing the deal without even consulting him. “Comm me if you need me.” She casts one last warning glance Boba’s way before leaving. 

Boba settles back against the cool stone, again letting silence reign, glad the whirlwind energy the Marshall brought with her is gone. Beneath his eye, Din straightens as if sensing the appraisal. So he still has his pride. That’s good, means he’ll take any assignment given seriously, see it through. Eventually, right on the edge of an uncomfortable amount of time, Boba rises from his throne and moves to stand next to the other man. “Let’s get you settled.”

No real luggage, just one small satchel. Boba shows him to his room, further down in the depths of the palace where it’s cooler, where a man in full armor might be reasonably comfortable. Close to his own rooms and even connected via a small hidden tunnel. One of the jobs Boba wants to assign Mando is bodyguard so he needs the man accessible. The room itself is actually a small suite of rooms: a large sitting area dotted with low couches and floor cushions and rugs, a modest adjoining bedroom, and a bathroom. The palace has running water but always on a timer to conserve. All rooms were thoroughly purged, cleaned, and furnished anew after Boba took control, but he found he rather liked some of the silks and tiles and gold that Jabba favored. Mando’s rooms feel almost opulent in its muted blues and dazzling warm yellows. 

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here, friend,” Boba says, knowing the man won’t. If their positions were reversed, Boba would opt to sleep on his ship instead. There’s silence from behind him, no response, not even an awkward shuffle, so he glances back at the shining unreadable buy’ce. Boba arches what used to be an eyebrow. “At least, I hope we are friends.”

Small movement as Din lowers his head slightly. Embarrassment? Boba tries to picture what’s going on. Is Mando frowning inside that beskar, or perhaps he’s blushing? That thought almost puts a smile on Boba’s face, such a mighty warrior flustered by declarations of friendship. 

Turning sharply, Boba moves to the door, not wanting the other man to see the mirth in his eyes and misunderstand. “I’m up early, I’ll come by around daybreak.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Mando is in the hallway by the door to his room, resting his back against the wall, chin tucked against his chest. It’s a little after dawn, still quite early, perhaps he has fallen asleep waiting. But no, as Boba approaches, the helmet lifts and swings in his direction. Without a word Boba nods, not slowing down, and is pleased to hear Mando fall in step behind him. They walk in comfortable silence. Dressed in the loose black robes he favors now, Boba is like a shadow moving from one pool of lamplight to the next; the robes not only help with the Tatooine heat they also do not agitate his scars. With the armor on, the needling tingle of nerves trying to heal does not cease so his kute does not matter. Now, in the peace of dawn when the residents and guests and servants still sleep, he would prefer to be comfortable. Behind him, the Mandalorian is surprisingly also soundless, and again Boba finds himself irrationally satisfied. 

Stillness is something Boba developed an appreciation while he was... away.

The kitchens are deeper down yet and wonderfully chilled when not in use. Boba kicks his boots off and flexes his toes again the cold tile. As he putters about, pulling things from various shelves, Mando settles in a corner of the room, somewhere he has line of sight to every entrance. 

Boba pulls out some haroun bread, sets the plate out closer to Mando. “Help yourself while I cook.” He trusts the cooks on staff, they know the legends of Boba Fett enough to fear his anger but have no personal vendettas against him. Even so, he appreciates the time to himself, a chance usually to gather his wits.

“A crime lord cooks for himself?” Mando asks, voice amused even through his vocoder.

Not many would dare speak to him so casually and the unexpected humor from the taciturn warrior makes Boba grin. It pulls uncomfortably on his skin. “The Mand’alor plays bodyguard?” 

Apparently the wrong thing to say. Mando shifts his weight audibly and turns his head to stare at the door. His shoulders roll forward, the barest hint of a hunch forward. The instinct to protect the torso, to hide, barely suppressed. “Kryze still won’t take it. Won’t fight, either. Claims I’ll throw the fight and that’s cheating.”

Boba slides the chopped boddle off of the board into the heated oil in his pan. “The past is all she knows. She’s too afraid to adapt. Rigid. It’s caused her problems before, it will again.” Mando has no reply, so Boba continues cooking, placing some tato on his board to chop up next. His cuts are precise. His tone when he speaks up again is also precise, carefully controlled so as not to spook the younger man “You ever consider keeping that sword? Making a go of it?”

His vocoder must be sensitive, it picks up his quiet scoff. “I just want my ship, my work, and m-...” 

Boba winces at the abrupt cutoff. He knows the Mandalorian is now thinking of his ad, memories suffocating him. When he next looks up, Mando’s back is bowed and his arms are crossed, grief and loneliness weighing him down.

The sound of a bowl slamming onto the counter pulls Mando out of himself, it’s like watching a flower opening as he straightens up and comes back to the present.

“Eat,” Boba commands as he serves himself. It’s just bantha meat and local vegetables fried up, nothing particularly fancy, but he never learned much about cooking nor did he care to. Only enough to survive, as with most skills that didn’t involve killing. Without waiting, Boba eats a mouthful followed by a bite of the bread, pleased as spices warm his mouth.

Mando stares down at the bowl and seems almost bewildered by it. “What is it?”

Rolling his eyes, Boba quickly swallows his mouthful before replying, “bantha. It’s filling. Got a long day, Mando.”

There’s such a long and excruciating pause that Boba stops eating, instead staring at the Mandalorian as he in turn stares at the bowl. What the kark could be the problem. It’s not poisoned, would be stupid to try to kill the younger man now. Allergy perhaps? Or perhaps he is not human after all inside that helmet and the food is somehow difficult for his kind. Finally, finally, a gloved hand rises and it’s the hiss of the seal opening that reminds Boba. The Creed. The stupid Children of the Watch. Before he can speak, the helmet is tilted back, revealing neck and chin but no more. Boba stares without realizing it, captivated by the beginnings of a dark beard dusting the square jaw, the curls he notices sneaking out around the back of the neck. It feels strangely forbidden to see this and therefore he cannot avert his eyes.

“Everyone else has seen me now. Even Kryze has seen me.” Mando murmurs as if an explanation is needed. His voice is melodic without the vocoder. “I wasn’t supposed to put it back on after the first time.” Finally, hearing the twist of anxiety in the other man’s voice, Boba is released from the spell and is able to look down at his bowl. His appetite is greatly diminished. 

This does not feel like a time to speak and what words can an old bounty hunter offer for something that must feel monumental. Instead, Boba just stares down at his cooling meal until he hears the soft clatter of wooden utensil against bowl. Glancing up, he watches as Mando sniffs the spoonful then eats it, chewing slowly.

“It’s very good,” Mando says before hunkering down to eat as quickly as possible. Perhaps he did not have a meal before arriving yesterday. Fennic would have thought of that, would have made sure the man was fed. Boba misses her unexpectedly and her calm detachment. Right now he needs it, he feels off-balance. 

Seeing the Mandalorian eat with such gusto though, Boba finds his appetite rearing its head again so he finishes his portion. No sense wasting food. As he gathers the bowls to set aside for a servant to wash, he sees Mando furtively grab some haroun bread to put in a pocket. Yes, Boba will have to make sure the younger man is fed tonight. 

Boba leads the way back to the rooms so that he might don his armor, plans for the day running through his head. 

Mando makes a noise behind him.

“Eh?” Boba asks without stopping, not even a glance over the shoulder.

“My name. It’s Din.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rats exist in Star Wars! As just rats, no new name. Who knew!
> 
> Or’diniise: fools  
> Osik: crap, bullshit  
> Beskar’gam: armor

The day starts. There is a private area off of the main hall that Boba has turned into something of a war room. The only doorway to it is near the throne, making it fairly secure; installing an indenti-lock and a magnalock helped as well. They begin business in there. Boba immediately pulls up a holomap and focuses on the Triellus trade route. Back when the empire fell, Crimson Dawn started to crumble under its own weight. A lot of planets that it once controlled are now run by small splinter gangs. One such gang controls a planet in the nearby Instrop sector; they want protected access to the trade route in exchange for a percentage of profits. An interesting offer. However, Crimson Dawn had a reputation for being the deadliest syndicate around and Boba has no interest in being killed so some small time or’diniise can feel tough. Din offers some solid ideas on security for when the gang’s representatives arrive. 

The rest of the early morning is spent going over communications received—and ignored—during the hunt. Din reviews the layout of the palace, recent security modifications, and staff profiles. 

Next on the list: supplicants. Or whatever Jabba once called them. There’s not many. Money and influence waned under Bib Fortuna, and while people know of Boba Fett his name does not carry the same weight it did once. Those that come seeking an audience are mostly Tatooine residents with grievances, outstanding debts, or business proposals. They skulk around in the shadows like rats fearfully waiting for their chance. 

Mando stands behind the throne, Boba can hear the quiet shuffle of his weight shifting. Probably bored. Boba can sympathize, this is the least interesting part of his day, but it’s important to know what is happening at ground level. Not everything is political intrigue and starship battles. 

While one of his pilots struggles to explain how he managed to “lose” a shipment of death sticks he was meant to delivery to Karkaris, Boba waves Din closer and switches his vocoder off, speaking directly to him through the integrated comlinks in their helmets. “I can’t listen to this osik anymore. What’s your take?” Boba researched the pilot this morning and has his own opinions regarding the situation. He’s not quite sure why he’s consulting Din other than to take a break from the monotony. And perhaps he finds the other man’s voice pleasant. Perhaps.

Din’s head swivels to glance down at him, not speaking for a moment, and Boba wonders what caused the hesitation. “He’s telling the truth.” Now that’s a surprise. “He’s just nervous.”

“He damn well should be, that shipment was worth a lot of credits.”

Boba watches closely, sees one shoulder lift every so slightly in a minute shrug. “Been watching the crowd. After you shot that slaver-“

“Which slaver?”

“The one that whipped that farmer’s son to death. After you shot him, the pilot started shaking like a leaf.”

“Could be afraid because he’s guilty,” Boba counters. 

“He wasn’t afraid when you dealt with others. Most people get scared when others start dying.” Again the tiny shrug as if to say it’s your choice. Not quite wiping his hands of the matter but making his distaste known. For a bounty hunter Din can be quite sanctimonious. 

Boba switches the comlink off and allows himself a heavy sigh before turning his vocoder on. He’d love to just shoot the pilot and be done with the entire matter, but his days of shortcuts might be finished. A ruler has to show he’s fair and principled for people to trust him. Thankfully the pilot fell silent while Boba and Din were talking. “I’ll give you two weeks. Find my shipment. Or my money.”

The pilot thanks him before skittering off, presumably back to his ship. 

Inside his helmet, Din’s voice crackles through the comlink, “sounded fair.”

The rest of the day passes predictably with time set aside to effect the security changes. Boba insists there will be no more lurking behind him, no, Din must walk beside him, stand beside him. No hiding behind the throne. Din accepts this rule without comment, for which Boba is glad. He would rather not have to dissect the reasoning behind his decision.

Evening falls, Boba orders food brought to his rooms. As the pair walk down the hallway they share, Boba walks past the other man’s door without stopping and can hear Din following. Interesting. Of course, he planned on inviting him to his room for dinner, but he did expect to have to actually extend the invitation first. 

Boba’s rooms are much like Din’s, only larger and in greens, a color he obviously favors. There is also a mess: tools for repairing and painting his armor, components to modify the electronics, and an array of weaponry. The staff that keep things tidy are not permitted in his room and the punishment for disobedience is death. He can’t trust anyone in his private space, something he learned as a child tagging along with the villainous lot that took him under their wings after his father’s death. And yet here he was, welcoming a bounty hunter into his sanctuary. 

Boba pulls his helmet off and sets it on top of the armor stand. As he is removing his gloves, the door opens and two servants brings in several trays. They don’t acknowledge the men, instead simply putting the food down on his table before exiting with a quick bow as the doors shut. All staff members know that Boba does not require nor appreciate subservience and that being succinct and fleet of foot are valued.

Boba considers leaving the rest of his armor on out of an overabundance of caution, but thinks of this morning. He wore robes then without a second thought, vulnerable to any attack that might come yet none did. And he had been honored for that trust, the Mandalorian had lifted his helmet and shared his name.

Mind made up, Boba quickly stores the remaining pieces, stretching a moment before heading to the table. 

The food is simple. Baked cushnip and fral. Covado salad made with imported ingredients from Ithor. Fruits from an array of planets. A covered jug of clear water. Boba enjoys the variety and now incoming shipments often include foodstuffs. Settling on some cushions on the floor, Boba waves a hand vaguely at the food, mouth too full of ksharra bread to speak.

Din settles next to Boba and the hiss of the releasing seal makes the older man’s ears perk up. Boba keeps his head down though, eyes averted; no use repeating the experience from earlier. They eat in companionable silence. Boba is done talking, done thinking for the day, especially when he has so much more talking and thinking to do when the delegates arrive. He wonders if Din feels the same weariness, the same resignation about tomorrow.

He risks a quick glance at the other man and is startled to realize the helmet is back in place and Din is looking at him.

“You don’t have to look away,” Din says, tone obscured. “I... appreciate it. But it’s okay.”

Toying with the empty glass in his hands, Boba shrugs as if he finds the conversation boring. He does not want the other man to feel uncomfortable. “Your Creed...” he starts, but finds that leads his down the wrong road. He tries again. “You’re safe here.” That isn’t quite the right road, either, but it’s close enough to satisfy. “Your word carries almost as much weight here as mine. No one will disgrace nor harm you.” Because if they did, he would find the slowest way possible to kill the offender. 

There’s a small burst of staticky sound from Mando’s helmet as if the vocoder didn’t know how to handle the noise. Worried he blundered into another sensitive topic, Boba is just about to stand and usher the younger man out the door when Din speaks up. “Thank you.” Boba stares for a second, dumbfounded, not used to being thanked. When he wits are finally gathered, he nods once without words then gets to his feet. There’s no need for words, this moment is too delicate and meaningful for speech.

Din’s beskar’gam sings as he gets to his feet. He lifts his hand and gently, carefully—the way one might approach a skittish akk dog—places it on Boba’s upper arm. There’s the hint of a squeeze, and then the Mandalorian is out the door, headed to his own rooms. 

Boba does not move for some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a huge fight for me. I did so much research because my brain won’t let me just make things up (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻


End file.
